


Darkness

by gevaudan



Series: Occupational Hazards [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Blindness, Captivity, Dark, Deaf, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 13:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6241576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gevaudan/pseuds/gevaudan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you communicate, in a pitch black cell, with a partner who can't hear you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darkness

The darkness was insidious, creeping, as its chill fingers crawled their way down his spine. They'd taken everything from him, his watch, his shoes, his jacket, his buttons, his _partner_ , and he was forced to  sit and wait in solitude, with no idea of the passage of time. This was the part of the job that he was worst at; the waiting. He was a man of action first and foremost, and inactivity chafed on him as badly as shackles. He wasn't chained here, that was one small mercy, but the pitch-black surroundings made any attempt to pace a fools gambit and he needed to be ready, and uninjured, to escape when the moment was right. A moment that was certainly not going to come until he had some idea of where his partner might be.

With a resigned  sigh, Napoleon Solo rested back against his cell's wall, wincing at the damp chill and the slimy kiss of its lichen coating.  It was at times like this that he envied Illya's ability to sleep anywhere at the drop of a hat. Doubtless, were their positions reversed, he would be curled up in the corner now, knees drawn up with arms folded on top to form a perfect pillow, conserving his energy until action was required. Napoleon on the other hand, had never mastered the talent, and so was now forced to sit, foot tapping impatiently, awaiting a change in circumstance.

This was meant to be a simple in and out job. Infiltrate the THRUSH base, find the lab, destroy the lab, doubtless with explosives if Illya had anything to do with it, and then hightail it home avoiding any of the customary resistance that their adversaries felt obliged to provide. Regrettably, despite their customary stealth, they had found themselves at the wrong end of a pair of THRUSH rifles, wielded by a couple of goons who appeared to only just qualify for the status of homo sapiens. From there they had been herded into the cell Napoleon currently occupied, with the guards only reappearing to wordlessly muscle out Illya Kuryakin.

He was not certain how long he has been sat there when his thoughts were interrupted by a distant rumble, that seemed to lodge in his bones for a moment before dissipating. He couldn't repress a smile for a moment, and he certainly couldn't be sure, but given his partner's predilection for creating loud noises and destruction there seemed a reasonable chance that he had once again managed to put his talents to good use.

Napoleon's hopes were dashed a short time later when the door to his cell opened with an ominous creak. He winced as bright light flooded in from the hallway outside, forcing eyes that had become accustomed to darkness to react to the overwhelming new stimulus. A slight, dishevelled figure hung suspended between the two guards, his face obscured by a shock of long, blond hair. With a violent swing and a curse from his minders, Illya Kuryakin was flung into the room, bonelessly hitting the ground with a dull thud.

"You'll pay for this Kuryakin," the guard on the right snarled.

"He can't hear you," his compatriot reminded him with a vicious grin,  before he slammed the door shut, plunging the two UNCLE agents into inky darkness once more.

"Illya," Napoleon called his partner's name softly, trying to remember in which direction the Russian's limp body had fallen. He froze, trying not to move, even not to breathe, his ears straining for any sound that would provide a clue to his partner's location. After an interminable pause, he was finally able to make out the soft sound of Illya's breathing, followed by a lone, agony filled groan.

Face set with determination, Napoleon lowered himself to the floor of the cell, and crept forward, fingers outstretched, as he felt for his friend's prone form.  Eventually, he was rewarded as his fingertips brushed against the acrylic fabric of Illya's customary black turtleneck sweater.  He tensed for a moment, giving the Russian agent a chance to react to his proximity. Kuryakin had reflexes like a cat, honed by years of work in the espionage business, and so to wake him without fair warning was to risk a broken wrist, or worse.

Worryingly, there was no response from the still figure. Napoleon suppressed the thrill of concern that shot through him, and repositioned himself to allow him to run gentle hands over his body, searching out any possible injuries. There was a grating yield of the right side of his chest that suggested broken ribs, and a number of bumps and contusions that suggested that Illya's new friends had not kept their hands to themselves in their time together.  Solo gritted his teeth against the surge of anger that rose in his chest, and continued with his survey. As his gentle fingers ran carefully through Illya's tangled blond locks, he heard a sudden gasp that signalled the Russian's sudden return to consciousness.

"Illya?"

"Napoleon?"

Their voices overlapped, teasing a grin out of Solo despite the severity of the situation.

"Hey, _tovarisch,_ " he greeted his colleague, "those guys did a bit of a number on you, hey?"

"Napoleon?"

"I'm right here, Illya," he gently touched his cheek, "We're both..."

"Napoleon," interrupted Kuryakin, abruptly, as though he had heard nothing of what Solo had been saying, "I can't hear anything, there was an explosion... and... I can't," there was a note of fear in his voice that Solo wasn't sure that he had ever heard before, "I can't see."

Napoleon's heart went out to him. It seemed that the distant rumble that he had heard may in fact have been Kuryakin's handiwork but if it was, he clearly hadn't managed to get away from the impact of the blast. Moving his hand carefully across Illya's face, he felt the tell-tale trickle of fluid from his ear that indicated percussive damage, backed up by the flat tone of his usually melodic voice.

How to communicate in the all-consuming dark though? He racked his brains for a moment before he turned Illya's hand palm upwards and began to tap.

Illya Kuryakin did not know where he was. The room was pitch black, and he was aware of the proximity of another person.  A gentle touch on his cheek and a well known cologne meant he was sure that Napoleon was there. After a moment he felt a familiar rhythm of long and short beats across his hand, followed by a pause before the same sequence repeated.

-..   .-   .-.   -.-

"D...A... R...K.... Dark? That's why I can't see ? Because it's dark in here?" Illya realised suddenly that tapping everything into Morse was going to be extremely time consuming, "Tap once for yes."

A single tap on his palm, sent a thrill through him and he couldn't hold in his sigh of relief. He smiled into the darkness as Napoleon squeezed his shoulder in sympathy, before resuming the tattoo of beats across Illya's palm.

....   ..-   .-.   -   ..--..

"Hurt?" Illya paused for a moment to run his own internal inventory of possible injuries. It was bewildering to hold a conversation this way, and he longed for a bit of light that would allow him to lip-read, rather than this complicated and long winded method of communication. "I think I've broken some ribs, probably perforated both eardrums and have a spectacular case of tinnitus - nothing else significant. Are you?"

Two taps.

"No?"

A single tap.

"That is good to...hear."

He felt Napoleon's laugh, could picture the smile on his face although he could neither see nor hear it. It was reassuring at least, that his partner was present, it made the whole situation considerably easier. Years of partnership meant that they could read each other clearly even when down a sense or two, something that Illya was infinitely grateful for.

.-.   ..-   -.   ..--..

"Run? You mean, can I run?" He smiled at the single, emphatic jab to his palm, "Faster than you."

His retort earned him an amiable swat which was probably aimed at his shoulder but that ended up catching him in the middle of the neck. He aimed a backhanded  swipe and grinned as he hit his target, quickly settling down to business as Napoleon returned to his side of the conversation.

.--   ....   .-   -       ....   .-   .--.   .--.   .   -.   .   -..

Illya paused for a moment, mentally spelling out the words to make sure he had correctly understood.

"What happened?"

Another single, sharp, prod.

"They took me to Dr Megalos' lab. Apparently he is the man in charge of this little nest. He wanted to know what UNCLE knew about his development of THRUSH's new, high powered explosive. It sounded quite interesting to be honest, he felt that he could blow up an entire building with a piece the size of a pencil eraser.  I didn't enlighten him on our reasons for being here, so he asked his goons to try and persuade me to remember."

He paused for a moment, wincing at the pain in his ribs, before he continued.

"Unfortunately," in a tone that suggested it was anything but, "I was a little clumsy while they were attempting to aide my memory, and I managed to knock over a few things that looked like they probably shouldn't be mixed together."

-...   ---   ---   -...

"Boom, indeed. Or at least, I assume so." Despite his injuries there was a note of pride in his voice, "I tried to make a run for it but I obviously didn't get far enough to save my ears. I think Megalos is dead, the lab is definitely destroyed but there is still a good number of underlings flocking upstairs, trying to salvage something from the situation. Given the zeal with which a couple of them knocked me out and dragged me here, I assume we are to be the peace offering to THRUSH Central."

.--.   .-..   .-   -.   ..--..

"Plan?" Illya's voice, while flat still managed to transmit his incredulity, " What have you been doing? I have been captured, interrogated, deafened and yet completed our mission, and you expect me to have come up with an means of escape as well?"

He rolled his eyes at the single tap that came in response, even though he was well aware that the gesture was futile.

"Napoleon, sometimes I wonder why I even bring you along."

He could almost hear the response that a comment such as that would generate, and found himself momentarily grateful for his deafness.

"Do you have any equipment left on you?"

Two taps caused Illya to grimace, and mentally try and run through any possible options in his head. It was frustrating, being unable to bounce ideas off his partner as he would usually, something that  would make this whole process infinitely faster. Instead, while he could speak freely, Napoleon was confined to responses in Morse code making it extremely difficult for him to provide any glimmer of the inspiration Illya needed. In the end, he conceded defeat.

"I think," he said slowly, not loving the idea, "we might have to go about the old fashioned way."

..--..

He smiled as Napoleon tapped out the code for a question mark against his palm.

"Someone, whoever gains the upper hand out there, will doubtless send for us at some point."

He waited for Solo, to concede the point then shook his head, not realising that his partner had in fact done so, although he hadn't heard it.  After a momentary pause, he continued.

"One of us can play dead, probably me, the other hides behind the door and..."

He tilted his head, Napoleon's voice so clear in his head that he could have almost sworn that his hearing had suddenly returned.

"I know it is lacking in our usual sophistication, but right now I am afraid that it's all I've got. "

\---   -.-

There was a moment of silent, stillness in the cell, that hung uncomfortably between the two men, broken suddenly as Napoleon suddenly flipped Illya's hand over and gripped it firmly, hoping that he could confer with his touch, everything that he couldn't say to his friend at the moment. After a long moment, he felt Illya's fingers curl around his in response.

" _Spasibo, tovarisch."_ Although softer than usual Illya's voice was strident in the overwhelming silence.

The metallic rattle of keys in lock spurred the two men into action, moving in wordless synchronicity honed by years of working together. Illya lowered himself carefully to the ground, attempting to avoid jarring his injured ribs as Napoleon tentatively moved to the edge of the room, to take up a position behind the door, which opened to allow of dazzling light into the room, highlighting the blond hair of the prone agent.

The two guards sent to retrieve them had clearly read Illya's script and were content to play their roles as written, gamely trooping into the room to retrieve him without giving any due consideration to where Napoleon might be located.

The element of surprise meant that the first guard was dispatched with little ceremony, leaving a two on one scuffle to remove the remaining opponent. Illya was a little late to the fight, having missed the usual auditory cues that proved useful in such scenarios, but rapidly made up for lost time as Napoleon hit the ground next to him, following a brutal right hook from the guard. After that, the fight was fierce but brief, and in short order the guards were divested of their coveralls and rifles, providing the two UNCLE agents with the semblance of a disguise. They slipped swiftly in the corridor, Illya pausing briefly to beam at Solo.

"For once my friend, I can truly say that it is a pleasure to see you," he commented, wincing in apology as Solo gestured at him to reduce his volume. "Sorry!"

Solo, cast an appraising eye over the Russian agent. As he thought, there was a trickle of blood from both ears and his face was darkened with bruises that in a few hours were likely to be truly spectacular. He was favouring his right side slightly, but he met Solo's appraising gaze with a confident stare.  Beckoning him to follow, Solo led the way down the corridor, taking the first corridor he saw that led off the main passageway. He paused briefly, allowing Illya to catch up, and then slip in front to take the lead. Napoleon wasn't sure how much of the compound his partner had seen, but a little knowledge had to be better than the vague impression he had managed to garner before their earlier capture.

Regrettably, that meant that Illya didn't hear the sharp command to halt, that came from behind them, or see Napoleon throwing up his hands in the age old gesture of surrender.

"I said halt!" the voice rang out again, accompanied by the sound of multiple rifles being brought to bear. Napoleon racked his brains fruitlessly for a means of getting his partner's attention that wouldn't result in both of them being shot. Nothing came to mind.

"Illya!" he finally shouted in desperation, praying that he might hear at least something of his cry.

His partner did not turn round.

"Hold your fire," the command from behind Napoleon was unexpected, but the voice, he realised, was suddenly unmistakable.

"Mark?" he queried, arms still raised.

"Napoleon?" the cockney accented tone was amused, "There you are, mate. We've been looking all over the bloody place. And where the hell is Illya off to?"

"What the hell is going on round here?" Napoleon asked, before he realised Illya had disappeared around the next corner, "Hang on a moment."

He jogged swiftly after the rapidly moving Russian agent, attracting his attention with a sharp tap to the shoulder, grinning as Illya turned to regard him with irritated blue eyes.

"Some backup you are," he enunciated clearly, making sure Illya could follow, "I got captured back there." Kuryakin's eyebrows knotted in confusion, "it's alright. It was our side." the confused expression didn't lessen, "Apparently Mark is here."

Illya's eyebrows rose at that and he led the way back to the UNCLE task force, grinning broadly at Slate when he saw him.

"Hello Mark," he greeted him, cheerily, "What are you doing here?"

"Well, we picked up reports of an explosion out here, but neither of you reported in. Mr Waverly ordered us to come and confirm completion of the mission, and collect you." He turned to Solo as he continued, "I'm guessing you took out Megalos? It's sent them all into a right flap - pardon the pun. There's little groups all over the place, no one knows what anyone else is doing, they're all so busy trying to cover their hides with Central."

He stopped as Illya growled in frustration.

"What did he say?" the Russian queried Solo, irritated at his deafness.

"They're the Cavalry," Napoleon surmised, catching the look of confusion on Mark's face, "Beethoven here composed the explosion that took out Megalos. Unfortunately, he didn't run fast enough."

"Ah," Understanding dawned and Mark turned to Illya speaking slowly and loudly, "Are. You. Alright?"

The slight blond rolled his eyes in irritation. "I am fine."

"And he's cheerful as ever." Mark commented, sotto voce with a smile.

"And he can lip read," Illya informed him, bluntly. "May we go now?" he asked Napoleon, ignoring Slate and his embarrassed blush completely.

Napoleon grinned, slinging a companionable arm around his shoulder. "Sure thing. Say _tovarisch,_ how did Noah see in the dark?"

There was a wicked gleam in his partner's eyes before he schooled his features into an expression of perfect innocence.

"I'm terribly sorry Napoleon, I can't hear you."


End file.
